


pale-glitter

by starlightwalking



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Name Changes, Names, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Maedhros, Other, Quenya-Sindarin Shift, Telepathic Bond, Telepathic Intimacy, Tenderness, Trans Maedhros, Unconditional Love, Ósanwe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27214756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: “I asked you, once,” they say slowly, “not to call me by my names. And you offered to call me ‘beloved,’ when we are alone.”“I did,” he murmurs. “Do you wish me to change that habit now?”
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 19
Kudos: 64
Collections: Anna's Trans Anthology





	pale-glitter

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [there will also be singing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23195581) by [starlightwalking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking). 



> tfw you write a fic so soft and tender you make yourself cry
> 
> this is a sequel to "there will also be singing," linked as inspiration :)

The Sun is sinking below the horizon, setting the sky alight. They remember a time when only the burning of many ships could produce such an effect, and they shiver. The winds here are not nearly as cold as they shall be in the lands east where they and their brothers will go, but still they are harsher than any in Aman. At least here, in Híþilómë—Hithlum—the air is clean and sharp. In Angband, they could scarcely breathe from all the foulness.

Footsteps behind them. They tense, listening, and as they recognize their lover’s steady gait, growing closer, more distinct, they force themself to relax. _It is only Findekáno,_ they tell themself. _He would never hurt you._

“Beloved,” Findekáno breathes, wrapping his arms around them. He is not tall enough to rest his chin on their shoulder, and instead presses his face into their fur cloak. Once, he could have smelled their long red hair, but like their hand, that was lost on the mountain.

 _I love you, hair or no,_ Findekáno murmurs in their mind, and they flinch slightly.

 _I thought I was getting better at keeping my thoughts to myself,_ they grumble.

Findekáno laughs softly and slips around to their front, staring up at them with affection in his eyes. _You are,_ he says. _But...you let your guard down when we are alone, my love. I hope that means you trust me._

They cannot help but kiss him then, because of course it is true. They trust Findekáno more than anything, anyone, including and especially themself. It tears their heart that they must leave him—but they have a duty, and he does also.

 _It will not be forever,_ Findekáno promises. _I will visit as often as I can._

 _And I will return when I may,_ they say, running their fingers through his braids. _Ai, but I will miss you, sweet Finno._

Findekáno kisses them again, so fierce and desperate that they half-believe he will consume them. But they must break away at last, and he sighs, still staring up at them with adoration they have trouble believing they deserve.

But that is not what they wish to dwell on, not now, not while Finno is still here, in their arms.

 _I love you,_ they whisper, and they were never as prone as he was to saying it before, but now the words are even rarer. When they can bring themself to say it, though, they hope it means all the more.

Tears bud in Findekáno’s eyes, and he smiles. _I love you, too,_ he echoes. He slides his hands into their cloak, pressing his cheek against their chest, and they know he’s listening for their heartbeat.

 _I’m here,_ they say, though it will be true for only one night longer. _I’m with you._

“Come to bed?” Findekáno asks, his voice a rumble that sends shivers through their body. They would be a fool to refuse him, and yet—and yet.

They take a deep breath. “In...in a moment. There’s...” They trail off, uncertain how to phrase this next. _There’s something I want to tell you, first._

 _Whatever it is, beloved, I will love you just the same,_ Findekáno says firmly. He says this every time they find it safe to divulge one of the horrors of their captivity to him, and he is always faithful to that vow. They wonder at it, and hope they are patient and supportive enough when it is his turn to confess the terrors of the Ice.

 _Always, love,_ he assures them. _Now...what is it?_

“I asked you, once,” they say slowly, “not to call me by my names. And you offered to call me ‘beloved,’ when we are alone.”

“I did,” he murmurs. “Do you wish me to change that habit now?”

They hesitate. “No. To hear your love, in your voice...” _That is a wonder and a blessing of which I shall never tire._ “But—it is...impractical, to have no name, especially as the...lord of the east.” Not all the east—they will share that task with their brothers—and “lord” is not quite accurate, either, but it will serve. As will the name they have settled upon.

Findekáno waits patiently for them to explain. He is good, that way—every way, truly.

“Nelyafinwë is not a fitting name for one who has ceded Finwë’s crown,” they continue. “Nor is it a name I much like. It was more an insult, a threat, than a gift. I cannot stop my brothers from calling me ‘Nelyo’—” though Makalaurë, at least, has picked up enough to drop the masculine _-o_ and begin to call them “Nely _a_ ” instead— “but it has never been a title I embraced.”

Findekáno hums to show he’s listening. They hold him tighter, the warmth of him a buffer against the chill of the wind.

“Maitimo... I once thought of myself that way. But the nér who was Maitimo is not the Elda I am now. It was a good name, and I hesitate to toss aside such a gift from my mother, but...I am not ‘well-made,’ not anymore.”

 _You will always be comely to me, beloved,_ Findekáno says, only half a tease. They huff, and press a kiss to the crown of his head.

“And Russandol...” They sigh. “My hair will grow back, though not the same. And that is _your_ name for me, my Finno. I cannot be Lord Russandol, not to anyone but you. And ‘Russo’ is...it is...I am not a nér. ‘Russa’ or ‘Russ’ would sound sweet from your lips, and I cannot deny you the name you gave me, but I cannot be Russandol to the public, to my people.”

“But I may call you Rusasandol?” Findekáno asks, his voice muffled, face still pressed against their chest.

“Mm. Yes.”

 _Russandol. Russa. Russ. My beloved Russandol._ It has been so long since he called them that, and they can feel his joy at being granted that privilege once more. It makes them happy, too; it is _theirs_ , both of theirs, this name. They will carry it with them to the east, and Finno will treasure it in his heart here in Hithlum, and in that small way they will not be parted.

“So have you found another name by which others shall call you?” Finno asks after a moment.

They stare up, into the darkened sky. The last of the Sun’s fires have gone out, and the stars watch them hold their lover close.

“Yes,” they say. “It is in Þindarin—Sindarin, I mean. We live with the Þ...Sindar, now, and already some have pledged themselves to the service of my brothers and I; I would take a name in their tongue, to show them my respect and gratitude.”

“A wise politician, you are, Russa,” Findekáno murmurs. “Even when it comes to the personal.” There is a tinge of bitterness underlying his words—they know he resents their departure, even if he understands and supports them. The grief at their parting eats away at them, too, and they do not begrudge him that selfishness. They feel it too.

“In the Sindarin form my ataressë would be ‘Nailfin,’ or something so hideous,” they scoff. “Curvo accepts them calling him ‘Curufin,’ but that is barely a change at all. My amilessë would perhaps become ‘Maedim,’ which is marginally better—but I have chosen instead to take the part of that name I like, and part of the name I cherish, and craft something new.”

“How very Ñoldorin of you,” Findekáno teases. “Tell me, please, or I shall die from the anticipation!”

They laugh softly. “I will be called Maedhros,” they reveal at last, “from _Mait_ imo, without the masculine ending or the same connotation; and from _Russ_ andol, so that I will carry you with me always, though few others will be privy to that secret.”

“Does it have its own meaning, in Sindarin?” Findekáno wonders.

“‘Pale-glitter,’ I believe,” they say. “A noble name, without promising too much. And my new hand does glitter, in certain lights.” They lift Curvo’s metal creation up to the stars, admiring the way it glints in the dim glow.

“Maedhros,” Findekáno says, and any of their names are precious on his tongue, but this new title sounds better when he says it than it ever has before. “It’s...unique. I like it. Maedhros. My Maedhros.”

“My Finno,” they say thickly, and he draws back enough to kiss them.

“Írissë has a new name, also,” Findekáno muses. “They call her Aredhel, the noble elf. It suits her, I suppose—but not as well as Maedhros suits you, dear Russa.”

“You flatter me,” they drawl, and he laughs, the sound even sweeter than their name on his lips. But not so sweet as those lips themselves; overcome with affection, they kiss him again.

 _I am ready for bed, now,_ they whisper in his mind. _Thank you for listening._

 _Always,_ he promises, and nips at their lips. _But right now it is your blissful moans I wish to hear._

 _Far be it from me to deny my prince what he desires,_ they say gravely. He smiles, tugging them back to his bed—and while they still can in this time they have left, Maedhros follows.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and please comment if you enjoyed!  
> You can find me on tumblr [@arofili](https://arofili.tumblr.com/).


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